


Clean

by theyhadcrepes



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Feels, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), M/M, Mild Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22446331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyhadcrepes/pseuds/theyhadcrepes
Summary: Aziraphalelovesbeing clean.And Crowley would say he's used to feeling filthy.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	Clean

**Author's Note:**

> TW: mild blood mentions, nothing too extreme.

Aziraphale _loves_ being clean.

He was one of the first proponents of bathing in the first place. After all, it was the pinnacle of class in Rome. Who was he not to participate in the shifting social norm? And, yes, while it was nice to bath with others, Aziraphale was very relieved when personal showers started to surface. 

He knows he could just as easily miracle away dirt and grime. And, it’s not like he sweats. But, a miracle could never compare to the simple comfort of a warm shower.

He has always marveled at the natural cleansing property of water. From the Beginning, water was a symbol of purity, godliness even. He loves the feeling of it on his bare skin, gently scrubbing away the stress and leftover emotion of a long day of doing good. Or more specifically, _not_ doing good. 

When Aziraphale found his mind slipping into uncharted territory, when he felt himself struggling with identity, with how fucking hard it is to stay good, he found solace in letting his mind drift into the clouds of steam. He could think. Of God, of the other Angels, of the Apocalypse. Of Crowley. The thoughts almost felt welcome, padded and concealed by the warmth clinging to his skin in the most delicious way.

And smelling like sandalwood isn’t too bad either.

Crowley would say he’s used to feeling filthy.

He would tell Aziraphale it’s, “Just something demons have to deal with. Repercussion of the Fall, really.” 

When Crowley Fell, God cursed him in more ways that one. Of course, he got the eyes – a painful, permanent stain that reminds him of his Rebellion. But, something he didn’t expect was the disgusting feeling on his skin, the ever-present grime, the _filth_ that covered him.

“It’s not anything that a human or angel can sense, per say. It’s an internal affair really. Kind of feels like a post-workout sweat”, he told Aziraphale over coffee one morning after the angel got out of a particularly effervescent bathtub. “Or when you’ve driven in a car on a hot day and you don’t have A/C.”

It’s not as if he feels muddy or dirty in any way, it’s just a film of sorts, a layer of permanent grime settling against his skin. And, there’s no way to get rid of it. Crowley knows that. And most days, it doesn’t bother him, at least as far as anyone else is concerned. “Most days, I forget the feeling altogether.”

But, sometimes, it really does get to him. Every once in a while, the disgust overwhelms him, the thoughts of the feeling he remembers so vividly; he desperately wants to feel clean again. And, believe me, Crowley has tried.

The hours he had spent in the early days of running water, sitting in long-since room temperature bathwater or curled up in a shower stall just. Scrubbing.

Maybe it was stress. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he was just fed up with the stench that only he could smell. But, for whatever reason, it would become abundantly clear that he couldn’t take it anymore. He would dig under his nails, scrape across his skin with anything he could find – sponges, towels, loofas.

Steel wool.

The shampoo would seep into his scalp as the soap on his body slowly became stained pink, then red as the suds mingled with fresh blood. Eventually, the incessant stinging and crying out of his blistering, seething skin as salty tears carved patterns in the red soap, would drown out the feeling of grime and the stench of decay, and he could will himself to stop scratching. 

But, he knew it would always come back. He could feel it like one of those itches that under the skin that no matter how hard you scratch it doesn’t go away. It would only be a matter of time before his skin began to scab over, begin to heal. The stinging distraction would fade away and the stench would one again permeate his nostrils.

Crowley would like to say he’s used to it. And he does say it, quite a lot. He tries.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Tumblr :: @theyhadcrepes


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